Late Morning
by queendainty
Summary: France visits Seychelles, who still doesn't know what to think of him.  Sort of romantic;  mostly about Seychelles.


It was Wednesday morning, and nearly noon on another day of watch-duty. He remembered dreading Wednesdays during school, because it meant that he was stuck in the middle of the week, swallowed whole. Now his workdays came irregularly, or at least this kind did, and any superstition he had harbored about days of the week was muted by the scenery.

It was not what he expected.

Actually, the scenery, though dazzling, was normal for an archipelago off the coast of Africa. But he still thought that parts of his job were much more…unofficial than he had anticipated during the mercifully brief weeks of unemployment after graduating.

_And of course they are, dumbass,_ he told himself as he chewed on the frosted cinnamon roll he had ordered to make himself appear casual as possible. _They don't tell you what you're looking at until you're in too deep to say "no." That Girl barely even speaks to us, but we're supposed to keep tabs on her like she's Miss Universe._ In a place like this, he should be out on the beach spear fishing or riding giant tortoises or whatever people did in Greater Victoria. Instead, he sat here watching the Girl's house for activity. This kind of business usually wasn't necessary, but supposedly another like her had come over from France. Interaction between "those People", as they were unofficially called, always required tighter security.

Meanwhile, the humid sky over the rooftops was clear and sunny. He could smell behind the ground coffee and car exhaust the salty wind drifting in from the Indian Ocean. The water was there beyond the end of the street; he spied it shining smooth, bright, and almost electric blue. Several boats drifted far off delivering loads of vanilla or copra. A packet of sweetener fell off the iron-grate table as he leaned out, and he remembered himself and looked again towards the villa.

There she was. In the window. She must not have been out of bed for long, because he could just make her out behind the glare on the windowpane sleepily adjusting the top of her dress, scratching her head, and picking stray pillows off the floor, for all the world like a normal kid. As she plodded into the hall and out of sight, he almost felt a weak twist of shame to be watching her like this, a grown man with a decent government job trailing a little girl. But his job included knowing something about who or what she was, which meant not thinking of the Girl in normal terms.

_She's no little girl. She's a whole mix of things that's been living out here longer than anyone._

Seychelles combed her black hair into two plaits and tried to remember what day it was. "It's Wednesday. I think." Her hands still felt raw from yesterday's scrubbing her boat free of grime and barnacles that accumulated when she had nobody around to impress. Today was humid and bright, she knew without even opening a window, and Papa would visit.

_Not Papa, dummy, _she corrected herself as she stretched until her spine crackled, standing on one skinny foot. She hardly ever thought of him as "Papa" now that she'd become too old to run small and careless under the palms, wearing nothing but the red ribbons in her hair. The ribbons disintegrated under the effects of sun and saltwater, but the girl obviously did not. Now she left her still-dark room and wobbled sleepily to the kitchen for a plate of microwaveable breakfast.

Seychelles made a noble effort to wake up properly as she slid into a chair, mentally scolding herself for her laziness. She pok-pokked the gingham-print lid of a jam jar in and out and watched a string of ants marching out of the clay flower pot on the counter. Her face cleared as she felt her brain shift into focus. France was probably wandering the shore by now, leering at civilians. Once when he came to visit he climbed onto the balcony and scared her very badly when she opened the door. Sometimes seeing France leave was just as welcome as seeing him arrive. Sometimes just seeing him in the first place suited her fine enough.

The microwave reached the end of its timer and beeped piercingly, but the only answer was the bounce of the screen door. The villa was empty. A little girl darted through the streets below and disappeared in a flutter of blue skirts, too fast for any agents to follow.

Seychelles skidded to a halt at the edge of the tree line and caught her breath, her heels scattering sand. The wind rattled the palms jutting out at bizarre angles over the shore, and before she could stop herself she called out gladly, "Monsieur Bonnefoy!"


End file.
